Winter
Frost-bitten months of chill winds, fogs and snow,
When icicles point from steep, glacial eaves
Down to crisp-ermined soil. Evergreen leaves,
Foot-track and house, slick path with hoar fence-post
And hardy shrubbery your coverlet
Of clustered crystals fleck with daubs of green
And brown. If my heart’s deepest depths could know
Not of what is to follow in your stead
Then would it, at your numbing touch, stop dead!.
But you are Spring’s rude harbingers and, seen
As such, you bring that heart a sign, beget
New hope of all that is to come. Pale ghosts
Of Spring’s bright advent, may the whole world come to see
Sources of hope in you, not merely misery!.
